Interdiction
by Shadow Stylus
Summary: Because the devil will recognize his own, all in due time. {Movieverse, very lightly hinted and very unrequited HarryPeter}


Interdiction

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Summary: Because the devil will recognize his own, all in due time. {Movieverse, very lightly hinted and very unrequited HarryPeter}

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A/N: For Alena. Because. Well. She's more than a best friend, closer than a sister, and every possible wacky comparison in between. And I love her like I love no other. So. For her. To friends, kiddo. raises glass

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Harry didn't like heights. Mostly because he knew that there was always—_always _the chance that he could fall from them, and it reminded him too much of the corresponding story in the Bible—about how Lucifer fell from heaven. He hated the thought that while one day you were up high on a crystal pedestal, the next you had fallen back to earth. And it was a law of…what was that damnable subject called…? Physics? –Anyways. It was a law of physics that what went up indeed had to come down.

He didn't like pushing his luck, and he was only just accustomed to testing theories, but alcohol was the motivation of both mice and men. It had drawn him to a ledge, and installed him neatly there. He felt…untouchable. Like no one would ever find him, like this was a 'secret place' for him and him alone. It was childish, but strangely comforting, as if nothing existed beyond this bubble of space save that which he wanted to exist. Oddly enough, he didn't really want much of anything to exist.

"High," he murmured to himself, leaning against a pillar, looking down into the street below. It was eighteen days since his father had died. Since he'd _fallen, _and Harry didn't think that he'd had a sober moment since then. Though he wasn't quite sure why he was keeping up this comedic vigil. He'd lit a candle, and he'd said a few words, and he'd spoken with a few people, and he'd told the lawyers that if they valued their lives, they would leave him the _hell _alone until he was _ready_ to deal with they and their pathetic, paltry—

"It's so high up,"

He wasn't suicidal. Even though he was drunk, he knew that for a fact. Revenge first, death later. That was how it went in fairytales, and it was how it was going to go for him, whether fate liked the circumstances or not. He _would _kill that…that…_man. _Spiderman. He would tear his intestines from his body and laugh. Oh sweet Jesus, he would laugh like he'd never laughed before and would never laugh again.

He wondered if he had the stomach for it. It was a gruesome occupation, revenge, and he wondered if when it came right down to it, if he could do it.

_He didn't…even love me…_

Why did he sound so bitter? Harry himself wasn't sure. But he was sure, that if bitterness was an ocean, he'd be drifting away on it about now.

_Peter. You were the son he should have had. Did you know that? Did he tell you that? You would have made more than a pretty figurehead for a million dollar company. You would have done things. Gone places. Would I have been different, if I would have been raised in your place, and you in mine? _

_…And…would he have loved me…? The way he loved you?_

He honestly didn't know. And what was past was past. He couldn't let it go—no, of course not. Forgetting the past wouldn't come so easily, but in the meantime, at least he could do himself a favor and refuse to dwell on everything that had happened.

"Harry…?"

He didn't jerk or start at the voice. He merely swilled his drink in the general direction and asked, in what he assumed wasn't a slurred voice, for a refill.

"Harry, how long…have you been out here…?"

_Peter…?_

"Oh, long enough," Harry said, somewhat cheerfully. "Do you like watching sunrises, Peter? It's almost time. I like the dawn, you know. It's…like. This glass, here." He held it up and examined it in the light of the coming dawn. Said light was fractured and refracted prettily, a swirling kaleidoscope of rainbows. "This glass is the sky, you see. And it's sad, because it's empty. Like the sky. But…" he pushed himself off the ledge and walked—swayed—to a small dais, where a bottle of scotch was doing nothing save looking ornamental. "It gets happy if you fill it. Dawn makes people happy.

"So how've you been, Peter? I haven't seen you." He leaned against the dais for support and tilted the glass in a ragtag salute. "In a while," he amended.

Peter's eyes flicked to the glass, and Harry wondered where his glasses had gone. His memory was foggy—blurred. When had the damn kid gotten contacts…?

"I'm good, Harry," he said at last, offering a hesitant smile. "I missed you. And your butler wouldn't let me in." He didn't elaborate on the subject, and Harry didn't ask. "I actually…I…well. I came to see how you were doing. Aunt May, she said you could stay with us, if…this. All this is being too hard on you."

He wanted to sneer and say 'I'm an Osborn. It's what we _do._' But instead he merely held out the glass for the boy's inspection. "Drink…?"

"Ah. No thanks." He smiled faintly, remembering the last time he'd gotten involved in a bottle of Harry's Scotch.

"Sure," Harry said, finally answering the question. "Sure, I'll come. If I won't be a bother. Or a nuisance. Nuisance is the same thing as a bother, you know. My father, he fucking _loved _you, Peter." He blinked at himself, wondering why that had slipped out. He hadn't been thinking it, had he?

Peter said nothing, instead accepting the glass. He held it, but did not drink. Harry watched him like a hawk.

"He—he might even have disowned me. And put you in charge after he died. Wouldn't _that _have been a mindfuck, Peter? Just think. Right now, you could own all this." He swept his hands out dramatically at the building, and all that it entailed. The bottle of scotch was insolently close to his outstretched hand and he swung at it and wished that he was swinging at something more…_human, _and it shattered when it hit the stone floor.

"_Harry,_" Peter said, quietly, eyes fixed on the drink in his hands. "Norman loved you. He tol—" he paused and changed tactics. "It was just obvious," and it looked as though he knew how lame he sounded, because he held the glass back out. Harry took it with vehemence, the amber liquid sloshing over the sides rebelliously.

"He _told _you, did he? When were your conversations so intimate? Huh?" He mimed a gun with his free hand, and it was aimed at Peter, and he flicked his finger like pulling a trigger and made the accompanying 'bang' sound.

Peter didn't look angry or hateful, just slightly hurt. Harry didn't _feel _angry, just slightly…intoxicated. Now _there _was a word that he could put to good use at a time like this.

"Let's go home," Harry said, affably. "After I finish this drink."

"I'll wait," Peter said, his voice level. Harry wondered at that. At why Peter was so able to keep everything together and under wraps. He'd lost someone recently, too.

"How's your aunt, anyways? I would have thought she'd have lost it after your uncle died." He chanced a sip at the glass, wondering if Peter would hit him, and how much it would hurt, but it never came. He'd expected it. Why was the kid so damned adaptable? That wasn't something Harry couldn't grasp. He didn't know _how _to change.

"She's good," was that him being terse…? Harry couldn't tell. "And…and I've been looking for a job, so I ca—"

"Do you need money, Peter?" Harry asked abruptly. "'Cause if you need money, you just have to ask, and I'd give you however much you wanted—or needed. It'd be my pleasure. You're my friend. My _best _friend. So I wouldn't mind. It's all mine, all mine to give away." There was that protective streak flaring up again, although…

He wasn't so sure these days, if it was an urge to look after the other boy, or if it was his inability to look after himself. He didn't know _why _he wanted to make sure Peter stayed safe, always, only that he did. He wondered if this was still him trying to repay some stupid, secret debt that he'd cooked up in his own mind. It was like…like he had to look after Peter, because he was so _sick _of people trying to do the same for _him, _and he wanted to be _useful _and he wanted his life to _mean _something, except that now it didn't mean anything at all.

"_Harry," _he said again, in that precise, clipped, exasperated tone. The sort one takes on when dealing with a stressful or particularly stupid child. "It's all right. I don't need your money." Secretly, Harry thought that he might have edited the words 'don't _want' _out of there, because it'd be rude to say something like that, and while Peter was many things, rude wasn't precisely one of them. He had trouble saying insults past 'jackninny', after all.

"Oh," he said, and he forced an edged smile. "Well, that's all right, then. I don't really feel like going anywhere tonight, after all, Peter. You can leave. I'll…be fine." It wasn't precisely a lie.

"I can stay here," he volunteered instantly, and Harry _hated _him for that, in that single moment, he absolutely _hated _him. Wanted to kill him, or _hit _him or…_fuck _him. Something. He wasn't sure, but it was more precise an emotion than he'd felt in days.

"I can look after myself," he said, and it wasn't harsher than he intended it to sound, because he didn't think he could have sounded harsh _enough. _He wanted this little brat—this fucking _kid _to know that he was perfectly and utterly capable of looking after himself. He didn't _need _help. He didn't _want…_

"No, no, it's all right. I can stay." Peter couldn't have missed the venom in his words, but he was being stupidly adamant about the whole thing.

"Get the hell out of here, Peter!" Harry's fingers tightened on his glass, gauging—his depth perception was skewed, but…

"_Harry," _it came again, and he reared his arm back and he _flung _the glass as hard as he could manage, but he didn't get to see whether or not it connected, because he stumbled forwards with his own momentum and when he'd straightened again, Peter was whiter than a sheet. The glass was nowhere in sight, but it didn't look like Harry'd managed to hit him after all.

"Damn," he muttered to himself, not quite loud enough for Peter to hear him. "Damn, damn, damn. Get out of here, Parker. I don't wanna talk to you." He doubled over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath and wondering when he'd lost it. "Just get out!"

By the time he looked up, Peter was gone.

He hadn't expected it to work, and some subliminal place in his mind had dearly wanted him to stay. For Harry to vent his sadomasochistic rage upon, perhaps? Part of him hated the way he was treating Peter, but…the other part. The _other _part _loved _it. The other part wanted him to go deeper. The other part wanted him to _tear _that kid _limb _from _limb, _and it wanted to laugh while Peter screamed and writhed and cried. And the part that hated what he was doing hated the part that loved it, and the eternal conflict just brought pain that was that much sweeter.

Part of him wanted to destroy him, for being…weak? No, no, that wasn't quite the word. Peter had shown fortitude lately, and that wasn't why Harry hated him. Or was it?

No. It couldn't be. Harry wouldn't _let _that be the reason, because it seemed…pretty fucking petty.

"Best friends, Peter." He said aloud, more in musing than a stating of the facts. He wasn't sure it was a fact any more, though he knew it had been, once. So he stood, clenching and unclenching his fists. And then he laughed. Harry _laughed, _for the joy, the sheer sickening thrill of adrenaline of knowing the _truth _about it all. Sooner or later, Peter, his mind promised him. Sooner or later.

He was just a kid, without care or worry. Harry had the world on his shoulders, now, and he'd trade off the responsibility for a little piece of Peter Parker's paradise. Maybe that was why…?

_I don't hate him. I don't. My brother, my…_

_Little Peter Parker.__ My own personal requiem. _

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Criticism, anyone?


End file.
